


hold on to me as we go down this unfamiliar road

by electr1c_compass



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, White House Era (Crooked Media RPF), Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-12 10:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18444581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electr1c_compass/pseuds/electr1c_compass
Summary: The image Jon keeps returning to is a...daydream, he supposes. That's good enough of a word for it. It's his happy place, maybe: this idea of an open field, stretching wide and flat, no matter which way he turns. There's enough space for his wings to unfurl and a light breeze that makes his feathers flutter as he stretches them open. He's almost always naked, free from the restriction of fabric and clothes and fucking binding.In the daydream he can also fly again, so that's really how he knows it's a dream.





	hold on to me as we go down this unfamiliar road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tommyandthejons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyandthejons/gifts).



> lots of gratitude to the people who helped bring this to life! special shout-out to my beta who, as always, indulged my rambles.
> 
> tommyandthejons: i hope you like it! you mentioned wingfic and then...this entire verse happened.

“Be still,” Jon hisses at...well, himself, he guesses. Surprisingly, it works. The muscles knotting his back relax and he’s able to straighten again, slowly, until he can feel his shoulder blades drop down to their normal place. He has to do a full body stretch once he’s fully upright again — carefully — reaching forward with one arm and then the other, rolling his neck until it cracks.

“Honestly, Jonathan,” Alyssa complains at the small pop, “do you fucking _have_ to?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to snap at her, loud in the confines of the plane. _Yes, I fucking have to._ He doesn’t respond though, pushing off the curve of the wall where he was standing and walking back down the small aisle to his seat. She’s grumpy from several hours without nicotine and he’s still rankling over the typo she’d pointed out in the press packet _in front of the President_ and it’s probably better for everyone around them if they just don’t speak again until Air Force One touches down in Los Angeles.

It’s an unbearably long flight, made worse by the fact that he can’t get comfortable in the seat. He feels extra top-heavy today, leaning forward until he can prop against the seat in front of him. Naturally, it’s a daytime flight, headed west for the evening event, so there’s no opportunity to furl a blanket around his shoulders in a shadowy corner and just...fucking relax.

He thinks longingly for his apartment in DC, with the wide expansive living room. It’s the whole reason he bought the damn condo, at the edge of his price range and worth every penny. He thinks of it, and it feels like the plane gets a little smaller around him, constricting even tighter.

Jon tugs at the fabric wrapped tightly around his chest and closes his eyes, mentally trying to see how many times he can count to ten before LAX.

His shoulder's still twitching, the constant, persistent muscle twitch he's had ever since he joined the White House. In college, it used to be a sign of stress and a lack of sleep; a signal he couldn't ignore. The time he'd called his pediatrician about it, the doctor — voice muffled through the phone Jon had pressed to his ear — advised more laying off the coffee and going to bed earlier. (He'd mostly followed it, at least until the start of finals.) 

Now, it's just the one constant of his days, faded into the background.

The vent overhead hums in the quiet. It feels like his skin is crawling and he can't stop shifting in his seat, listening to the hum of the jets outside the window. He could...he could take another pass at the speech for the evening. That's what he should be doing. He pulls out his phone instead, scrolling back through the email chain with Lovett, re-reading the latest one from him that reads _See you tonight_.

He scratches at the peak of one shoulder, but that just makes the fidgety feeling around his chest worse and he knots his fingers in his lap. He imagines his empty apartment again and shuts his eyes to the thought of a wide open room, with plenty of room to stretch.

 

He's had a picture in his mind, ever since his parents moved away from their first house with the big backyard to the small house in the suburbs when he was in elementary school. It's when he started binding all day, folding his wings tight against the hollows beneath his shoulder blades and wrapping them tight against his back. It wasn't comfortable and took several weeks to get used to, but at least it kept them tucked out of sight. Jon can still feel the tightness of that first binding, cutting ridges against his skin. His wings were stronger then and had unfurled so enthusiastically when he got home from school, he'd been lifted off his feet.

The image he keeps returning to is a...daydream, he supposes. That's good enough of a word for it. It's his happy place, maybe: this idea of an open field, stretching wide and flat, no matter which way he turns. There's enough space for his wings to unfurl and a light breeze that makes his feathers flutter as he stretches them open. He's almost always naked, free from the restriction of fabric and clothes and fucking _binding_.

In the daydream he can also fly again, so that's really how he knows it's a dream.

 

LA is _hot_ , which he should have expected; a sharp adjustment from the chilly, late fall nights of DC. It feels good though, warm sun on his face, as he passes from the plane to the motorcade. He winds up knee to knee with Alyssa, who's chewing nervously on a fingernail, Blackberry firmly in her other hand. So she hasn't found time to smoke then. He's honestly surprised when she doesn't just roll down the window of the Suburban and light one.

Jon balances his laptop on his knees, trying to focus on the words in front of him as the SUV pulls out onto the freeway, sirens blaring around them. The speech is done, but he hates this in-between time, when he can just chew over the same words again and again. Giving up, he leaves the speech open, cursor blinking impatiently, and settles for watching the palm trees pass by. 

Lovett's waiting for them outside the hotel, arms stiff and hands shoved in his suit pockets. He's nearly silhouetted in the fading light, palms swaying gently behind him. "I thought becoming a Hollywood writer meant I never had to wear suits again," he grumps in greeting as Alyssa pulls him into a hug — a pit stop before she disappears around the corner, leaving Lovett and Jon in the shadow of the opulent hotel. Jon barely notices the glamour around them as he pulls Lovett into a quick one-armed hug.

"Thanks for coming."

Lovett grins at him, finally. "Miss me already? It's been what, like, three months?"

"Three months and you've already got a TV deal."

Lovett scuffs a shoe on the sidewalk, chewing his lower lip. He's pleased by the compliment and Jon beams at him — can't contain it. "This being your own boss thing isn't so bad. I'm a little tired of the Starbucks by me, though."

"Need some tips on managing yourself?" Jon asks as they take slow steps toward the entrance. The strap of his bag is digging against his bunched wing and he adjusts it on his shoulder. He wants to linger outside, beyond the fray. "I've got a few."

"Turns out it's not so easy," Lovett allows. "My new employee is a lot to deal with."

"It's worth it," Jon assures him. When Lovett laughs, loud in the low chatter of the crowd, Jon can feel himself flush. Not for the first time, it feels like Lovett's pulled all the oxygen from the room and he surreptitiously pulls at his binding, tries to give himself some room to breathe. 

"Did you take the motorcade over?" Lovett asks, switching topics as they move to the staging area, past the guards. Backstage always has a special kind of intimacy to it — a hushed, respectful quiet woven in with the frenetic energy of POTUS's inner circle. He continues before Jon has a chance to respond, like he already knows the answer. "I valeted, I'll drive us back."

Jon finds himself reaching out, catching Lovett even though he hasn't moved away. Lovett turns back to look at him, surprised, maybe, and Jon lets go. "Do you want to take a pass at the speech?"

Lovett grins and it erases the last three months, wipes away the distance and that day Lovett turned in his badge at the gate, looked at Jon and said _I guess this is it_. Present day Lovett says, "Need someone to stroke your ego, Favreau?" and wiggles his eyebrows as if Jon could have missed the innuendo.

Jon laughs, buys some time until he can gather himself enough to say, "Are you offering?"

It's Lovett's turn to flush, pink-cheeked in the harsh lights. "I'll wait until he gives it, leave _some_ things as a surprise."

 

The ride back to Lovett's house after the event is excruciating. Jon's never burst a binder before, but he's nervous about it now. His wings are straining against the fabric, fighting for freedom. He’s probably sweating in his suit, but he can’t focus on that, can’t force his attention away from the ache in his back. Lovett riffs the whole way, letting Jon get away with a few well-placed active listening noises, Lovett's words blending together in a soothing hum around him.

He pushes past Lovett into his house — if he doesn't get out, if he can't fucking... _god._ The binder has to be getting tighter around his chest, compressing his ribcage, the fine bones of his wings cutting into his back. It feels like his back is on fire, muscles cramping and sore and he can feel the panic rising in his chest. He's already pushing his jacket to the floor, unbuttoning his shirt buttons out of order before the front door shuts behind him.

"What are you —" Lovett starts from behind him and Jon misses the rest of the sentence. This is one of his best binders and he's scrabbling ineffectually at it before his shirt is even all the way off. He'll rip the damn thing in half if he has to. "Jon, what the _hell_?"

Jon tosses his binder to the floor and can't stop a heavy sigh of relief as his wings sweep outward. It feels like...feels like freedom and fresh air and he can really _stretch_ for the first time all day, leaning backward and groaning at the pull in his muscles. He's shaking a little from the surge of adrenaline, the 4pm coffee, and the feeling of being awake for too many hours. A crash startles him and he glances over to see Lovett staring at him.

"You broke my picture," Lovett says faintly and there's a scatter of glass at his feet. "Just fuckin'...your wing knocked it off the wall." He's laughing a little as he speaks. "Your _wing_."

Jon tries to take a step toward him, but his wings are bulky when they're fully spread like this, stretched wide across the living room. It's impossible to navigate with them and his muscles complain when he tries to pull them back in. "I uh — sorry about that, I can replace it. Also don't move. Where's your vacuum?"

"I don't have a vacuum, who do you think I am? Just use your feathers to sweep it up," Lovett teases, the color starting to return to his cheeks. "Just —" he flaps his hand in some imitation of a wing and then Jon's laughing too, a dazed mix of relief and residual anticipation. "Don't — uh — don't worry about it right now. Just...give me a minute, okay?" He edges around a wingtip, careful not to touch it, until he's level with Jon again. "How many jokes do I have left before you tell me what the fuck this is?"

"Seven," Jon says cautiously, studying him carefully.

"One: did it hurt when you fell from Heaven? Two: You're such a Democrat even your wings are blue." Jon can see him taking the colors in, noting the shorter, pale blue feathers at the tips of his shoulders, growing darker until the iridescent blue at the spread of his wings.

"Six, five. I'd be great for rallies. Me and a bald eagle." The wings ruffle as he speaks, giving away his happiness like a smile he can't fight back.

"You should mention it to the President." It's not quite a joke, losing the tone before Lovett can finish the sentence. He stumbles over the pause for a moment. "Can I touch them? It's not a joke, don't count it."

Jon shrugs, the movement rustling the primary feathers along the bottom edge of his wings. "Sure."

Lovett stretches out a small hand, runs his fingertips gently over the plumage. "Can you feel it?" He glances at Jon and the look — the curiosity, the focus — makes Jon's skin prickle and he shivers reflexively, suddenly reminded he's shirtless.

"It feels like," he crosses his arms and tries not to laugh when the slight movement of his body makes Lovett jump, "like scratching your leg or something. The skin, uh, under the feathers is what I can really feel, since the feathers don't have nerves."

"The _feathers_ don't have _nerves_." He repeats under his breath. Jon ignores him. 

"Here." He cups a hand under the curve of his left wing, holding it in place as he reaches out with his other hand to push some of the feathers on the wing aside, revealing the pale surface under them. Lovett brushes over it gently with a fingertip, tracing over the edge of the quills. The touch makes Jon inhale sharply, awareness sharp and focused on the place Lovett's touching him, stroking the translucent skin lightly.

"It feels like..." Lovett struggles for words. "A flower petal."

"It is," Jon steps away from Lovett's and finally makes his wings relax enough to fold back up against his spine, "decidedly _not_ a flower. They're heavy as hell. Does this place have a backyard?" He looks around the living room, taking in the space for the first time. "Hey, I like your house. This is nice." It's almost entirely devoid of personal touches — just the speech signed by POTUS and a few photos scattered across the white walls. The furniture is familiar, if out of place, contrasting with the memory in Jon's mind.

"Thanks," Lovett says, a little awkwardly. "It's uh, this way."

"Cool," Jon follows him out of the door, careful his wings stay tightly folded. "God, it's cold out here when it gets dark." He stands in the middle of the yard and lets his wings unfurl all the way, stretching them out as far as they'll reach.

"How long are they?" Lovett takes a seat on the stairs and leans back on the palms of his hands to watch Jon, farther into the shadow of his porch. "Twenty feet?"

"Fifteen — so like, roughly two and a half of me."

"Is that the average wingspan ratio of the birdmen?"

"Four jokes left, and there's not like...a group of us. But general ratio, yeah."

Lovett ignores him. "Did Michael Phelps get in on the wingspan to torso ratio alone?"

"Three. He was disqualified for not actually having feathers." It feels good, ribbing Lovett like this. He's missed it. He's missed _him_.

"Okay, I'll save those for later. Serious questions now."

Jon groans a little. "Okay."

"Are you a science experiment gone wrong?"

"I'm taking away a joke for that. Two. And no — it's...a genetic anomaly, I guess. There are others, but," he can't look Lovett in the eyes, stares determinedly at a point just past Lovett's shoulder, "they don't tend to live that long. Wings aren't conducive to...normal bone growth."

"Oh." There's silence and then Lovett snorts, unable to contain it. "'Bone growth'."

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry, keep going. Tell me more."

"I've always had them. They didn't start growing until I was a couple of weeks old. Until then it was just —" he reaches behind himself to gesture "— bumps on my back." He laughs a little, dry. "And then I got feathers."

"Can you fly?"

Jon's shoulders have loosened, finally relaxed to the point that he can flex and make his wings flap, the force stirring the dirt around their feet. It's worth the effort when Lovett's eyes get big and he leans even farther back, like he's waiting for Jon to lift off the ground. He lets it go for a few minutes, the wind picking up, then drops them, panting with exertion. "No, I can't anymore."

" _Anymore_?"

"They're too heavy now." He's sweating and wipes at his temples. "God, I really don't use those muscles. I gotta like...practice."

"Like weight lifting, but wings." Lovett determinedly circles the conversation back around: "So you _used_ to be able to fly?"

"When I was like, seven and lighter. Not very high or for very long, but I could get some air. It's how I broke my leg the first time."

Lovett squawks. "You told me you broke it skiing!"

"What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, it's just my wings’?" He shrugs, the motion ruffling the feathers along the bottom of his wings. Lovett snorts.

"Who all knows? Does the President know?"

It's a list Jon could recite in his sleep, a list he's run over and over in his head. "My parents, Andy, Josh, and the three doctors I've ever seen. A few nurses too, I guess."

"How did it stay a secret?" The next question is quieter, hushed between them. "Why aren't there scientific journals written about you? Medical Marvel Jon Favreau."

Jon takes a seat in the grass, his wings drooping behind him. Fuck his dress pants. He runs a hand over the stiffest feathers, watching one of them split when he rubs the plume the wrong way. "Doctor-patient confidentiality is great. My parents uh, found someone who had published an article about — about someone else, one of the others, and I've been seeing her ever since. They can't write articles on you if you don't give them permission."

It's a little raw, thinking back to all those hours spent in waiting rooms, to the whispered life expectancies and the endless tests, to the smell of the rubbing alcohol they'd scrub his wings down with.

"Tell that to Fox News,” Lovett quips, then offers: “Can I get you a beer?" Jon breathes a little easier. This question he can answer.

"Please. I'd get it myself but —"

"Shut up. You'll just break more of my shit." It's said kindly, tossed over his shoulder as Lovett steps inside and yeah, Jon hasn't felt this relaxed in weeks. Lovett comes back with a beer and a blanket. "Put your chest away," he teases, handing Jon both, "or I'm calling Politico."

"Thanks." His wings ruffle a little as he stretches for the beer and tosses the blanket around his shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" Lovett asks quietly as he settles back down onto the step. "With your uh," he gestures.

Jon cracks his neck, testing the muscles. "Good. Usually I'm only, uh, like this at home. There's not as much space as out here though." He flaps one wing, then the other. "I think that's why it was so bad earlier."

"Pent up energy?" Lovett asks, eyebrows raised and Jon laughs. He can feel the flush rising in his cheeks — Lovett's not wrong. 

"Something like that." His wings shift behind him as he stretches, side to side this time. There's a knot in one of his shoulders and he reaches to push at it, feeling the hours in a plane. "I'm getting old. I wish there was a—a bird chiropractor," Jon complains. It's not the first time he's gone down this particular road, but it's certainly the first time he's voicing it with Lovett, who snorts.

"What would the school for that look like? Those stand-up skeletons that they always have would take up half the room. Hey," he asks suddenly, tone staying light, "can I see them?"

Jon knows what he means without needing further explanation and stands up, groaning a little as his center of gravity shifts. For as natural as it should be, this extension of himself, he's out of practice walking with his wings spread. It takes a bit of navigating, but he manages to settle down in front of Lovett, who's still sitting on the porch. "Sick," Lovett says breathlessly, scooting closer until Jon can feel Lovett's leg pressed against his back. "This is straight out of a video game."

"Fuck you," Jon says good-naturedly. He moves the blanket out of the way and tries not to flinch when Lovett runs a hand over his shoulder blade, tracing the curve where the wing meets his back and through the downy feathers. Neither of them say anything as Lovett curls his fingers gently around the crest of a wing, his thumb dipping beneath the feathers to stroke the fragile skin below. Lovett's touch feels electric, the pressure of his thumb on the wing sending sparks up Jon's spine. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning down to press his forehead against the knees he's pulled against his chest, curling forward until he's hidden his face.

It sounds like Lovett starts to say something and stops himself, letting his touch linger instead.

"I've never —" Jon starts to say, but stops because he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

"Been touched?" There's quiet amusement in Lovett's voice. "Yeah, I would think not. That's a...small list you gave me earlier. I doubt, uh." He swallows the last part of the sentence.

Neither of them elaborate, but Jon just says, "Yeah."

Lovett runs his fingers rhythmically over Jon's wings, spreading the feathers between his fingers as Jon settles into the space between his legs. He feels like he could go to sleep right there on the ground in Lovett's backyard. 

He’s cautious and gentle when he brings his other hand to press gently into one of the knots in Jon’s shoulder. Jon shivers.

“Cold?” Lovett asks, the smirk in his voice evident.

He’s never felt more like he’s back in high school then when he looks over his shoulder and says, “Yeah, we should go inside.”

Lovett stands first and helps pull Jon to his feet, his hands warm in Jon’s. They both turn toward the house and Jon keeps Lovett’s hand in his, carefully tangling their fingers together. Lovett doesn’t say anything, just gently guides him forward.

They’ve left the living room light on, but Lovett keeps the rest of the house dark as he tows Jon into his bedroom. He’s framed by the streetlight outside, when he turns to Jon and says, “You’re okay with this, right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“You’re shaking,” Lovett explains softly, running his free hand over the joint of one wing.

“Is it stupid if I’m nervous?” Jon asks the darkness.

“You haven’t done this before — it would be weird if you weren’t.”

Jon tries to cut the tension in his chest as Lovett takes a seat on the bed, letting Jon take the last step. “Couldn’t exactly go to a bar with these,” he jokes, letting his wings unfurl halfway.

“Bars are awful anyway.”

“I like them,” Jon protests — when he wants to say “I like _you_ ” — and that’s when Lovett leans up, pressing their mouths together and the rest of the world falls away.

It's unfamiliar and terrifying and Jon can feel the excitement, the thrill, all the way down to his toes. He kisses back enthusiastically, his wings rippling.

"You're like your own little micro-climate," Lovett teases, smoothing a hand down a wing. The touch makes Jon shiver and he can't help pressing in closer. It's been...so long since he felt like this, an achingly long stretch of time since he was able to be this close to someone. Lovett, he notes gratefully, makes the first move, tugging his shirt over his head.

It feels __electric__ when Lovett runs an exploratory hand down his chest, tracing gentle fingers down the center line of his stomach, until his fingertips are curling into the waistband of Jon's pants, tugging him forward until Jon's hovering above him, so close their breath mingles together. It's easy to let him take the lead: fumbling for the lube in his nightstand as Jon shoves his pants to the floor, then helps tug Lovett's to the ground.

"How do you want --" Lovett pauses, looks up at Jon. "Actually, here." He scoots all the way against the pillows, tugging Jon up to straddle his lap. "Are you okay if I --"

"Yeah." Jon goes breathless as Lovett presses a slick finger against him. He opens Jon up in soft, gentle moves until Jon's trembling, rocking forward unconsciously.

"Okay." Lovett has to take a beat, closing his eyes and letting out a long, slow breath when he pulls his hand away. "I'm clean if you..."

"Definitely clean," Jon reminds him and Lovett laughs quietly.

"If I had any jokes left, I'd make an avian flu one here."

Jon leans forward to kiss him again, rising to his knees as Lovett lines them up. One of them is shaking, maybe both, their breath ragged in the dimly lit room. "I'd allow it," he gasps when Lovett edges in, "but only from you."

His body responds easily and he sinks down carefully, letting his wings unfurl for balance.

" _ _God__ ," Lovett whispers softly, nearly reverent when he starts to move. "Jon, __Jon__."

He's never...there's never going to be anything better than this: the soft places where their bodies connect, the strain in his thighs, the gentle warmth of Lovett's fingers tangled with his.

He's shaking apart before Lovett even touches him, caught in the feedback loop of the roll of their hips, the tense climb up his spine.

“Keep going,” he says quietly, before Lovett can even try to shift away. “Don't — don't stop.”

Lovett's saying something as he chases his own orgasm; Jon thinks it might be his name, muttered and low.

“Come on, babe.” The endearment slips out without thought, but Lovett's hand tightens in Jon's and he comes with a groan. There's a beat before they separate, a long moment where they simply share the space.

And then Jon lifts himself off, feeling the stretch in his back and slight protest in his wings when he tries to fold them back in. He maneuvers off the bed, headed for the hallway when Lovett says, voice rough, “Where are you going?”

“Uh,” Jon gestures to his wings, the tips brushing the base of his spine, “I was gonna find my binder, so they don't get in the way while you sleep.”

“Do they bother you?” Lovett asks and it's not harsh, just direct.

“No.” Jon feels a little silly, self-conscious even in the shadows, unpracticed and out of depth.

“Then they don't bother me,” Lovett says easily, rolling onto his stomach and watching Jon through half-open eyes. “Come back — you've been up for a million hours.” He's right, the bone-deep exhaustion sinking in as Jon curls up beside him. “You could build a fort with these things,” Lovett observes sleepily. “Like...a tent.”

“World renowned —” Jon starts to tease and it's a relief they can still do this, the banter coming easily.

“Shut up.” Lovett says, waving a hand at Jon's face. They drift off like that, pressed close together.

 

It's bright and sunny when he wakes up, the unfamiliar scene disorienting until he can remember what happened, where he is.

His Blackberry's flashing from where it's plugged in on the wall — Lovett must have retrieved it, he realizes. It's hard to leave the bed and he pauses to check the time, pulling his pants on as he peers at the screen.

He's going to be __late__ and pauses to send Alyssa a quick email before he retraces his steps from the night before to the kitchen. He finds Lovett there, drinking deeply from a coffee mug. He almost panics, feels it start to climb up the back of his throat. What should he _say._

Then he makes himself stop. This is Lovett. Lovett who still pretends Vitamin Water has magical healing properties and thinks the solution to any crisis is a nap and a Diet Coke. It's Lovett and he's still Jon -- and it calms him enough to take the extra step and press a kiss to the corner of Lovett's mouth. "Morning," he says lightly. There's an extra steaming cup on the counter and he reaches past Lovett for it, pretending not to notice when his wings wrap around him, just enough to keep them locked in place.

"Get caffeinated," Lovett says, one hand making it's way to rest on Jon's bare waist, "and then I have some questions."

Jon doesn't move his wings from where they have Lovett pinned against him and he takes advantage of the proximity to kiss Lovett for real. "I already texted Alyssa and told her I'm flying back commercial."

"Just flap a few times," Lovett suggests, reaching to tease the softest feathers along Jon's shoulder blade, "take a quick rest stop in Kansas. You'll be back at the White House in no time."

"Good to know you're so ready to be rid of me." Jon can't -- doesn't want to -- stop kissing him, letting their bare skin press together, eliminating all the spaces between their bodies. 

“You could just stay,” Lovett suggests and it's tempting in the warm kitchen to indulge himself in a future where he makes the choice to stay, never gets back on the plane to Washington.

“Maybe I'll just flap —” Jon can't even parrot the joke back without starting to laugh. “I'll be back.”

Lovett kisses him again, soft and slow. “You better. But I should really get you back to DC. I think Alyssa could still fire me if she really wanted. Fire me again.”

“Probably.” Jon reluctantly lets him go, stoops to pick the binder up off the floor, his abandoned shirt next to it. Lovett reaches for the binder, his fingers curling around Jon's.

“Can I?” He asks and Jon turns away, lets Lovett wrap the fabric around his wings. He's careful and focused, stroking the feathers into place. “Is that good?”

Jon pulls his shirt on, turning toward him. “You tell me.”

Lovett attempts a smile, pressing a hand to where the peak of a wing rests in the concave of Jon's back. “You almost can't tell they're there.”

“That's what we're going for.” Jon finishes buttoning up his shirt, checks his pockets for his wallet, unplugs his Blackberry.

“Well —” Lovett looks around. “You got everything?”

“I think so.” They're loitering in the hallway, Jon's briefcase back in place, his suit jacket hanging on one arm. His phone pings and he glances at the screen. “Alyssa's sent a car. It's almost here.”

“Come back anytime,” Lovett offers. “Whenever you need to uh…” He runs a hand over Jon's back, tracing the hidden wings, “stretch.”

“Same to you.” 

“I don't think so. Eventually I'll convince you to leave the swamp too.” They look at each other for a long moment before Jon leans in, bending to press their mouths together.

“I'll see you in a few months?” He phrases it like a question, even though they know Lovett will be there. The moment feels heavy between them, significant in a way it never had before.

“I'll have to see if there's room in my schedule,” Lovett says loftily, even as he squeezes Jon's hand before letting him go. He steps out the door and it feels like his wings weigh a little heavier now, Lovett's touch still lingering.


End file.
